Captain America doesn't do blood magic
by Kitty September
Summary: "What's all this," John waved a hand at the probably-not-dead Captain America, Captain America's probably homicidal boyfriend, and Stephen Strange's workroom but also implicating 'the Avengers, good guys, boring superhero crap,' "got to do with the likes of me?"


"Strange," Constantine said, keeping his voice level as he stepped out of the floor-length mirror into the main parlour of the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Doctor Strange spun at the sound, his officious purple robes swirling around him, to watch Constantine arrive with considerably less sparks and smoke than was customary for magical mirror transportation.

"Constantine, welcome to the Sanctorum," Strange replied. He even smiled. It was tight around the eyes, not quite genuine but the effort was nice enough. Especially seeing as John wasn't actually meant to be able to arrive the way he had. Must really want something. "Would you like some tea?" He waived to the tea tray next to him. The little teapot started to steam instantly. Show off.

"Listen mate," Constantine sneered back, "whatever this is, it's gonna cost you a lot more 'n a cuppa. Even if it is that posh single estate Ceylonese rubbish…"

"To business then?" Strange said. His tone was jovial but the strain ever present. He poured the tea and handed the cup to John seeming to understand Constantine's particular and slightly snide brand of 'yes please'.

"Yeah, well. We both know you hate me guts. And you hate it even more when I show you up. So you'd only invite me 'round for save the world level dirty work when it's the real bleeding _dirty_ kind of dirty work. Ever occur to you I don't like getting elbow deep in baby's blood neither?"

Stephen's smile stiffened even further but he nodded his acquiescence to the accusation.

"This way," Strange said without further preamble. He turned to push aside a ridiculous red velvet curtain and waved Constantine through to a slightly smaller but equally over decorated workroom.

In addition to the wall-to-wall shelves full of herbs and the usual magical paraphernalia this room also held three large trestle tables. One was set up for alchemy, one was covered in velvet and held boxes that John would be willing to bet were divination and crystal work tools, and the third… well the third seemed to currently hold the half-naked and fully unconscious form of Captain America.

"Homunculus or simulacrum?" Constantine asked.

"Neither," said Strange. Constantine really didn't like it when other people got that smug wizardly 'I-know-what's-going-on-and-you-don't' tone. That was his tone.

"Hmph." Avengers - just what he bloody well did not need to get involved with. There were probably going to be aliens. John hated aliens.

Constantine was about to make his way to the table of interest when he noticed the fourth man in the room.

The bloke was almost silent and he lurked pretty damn well. But he still had a human aura and John wasn't about to wander around Stephen Strange's house with his senses muffled. John narrowed his eyes in the direction of the corner but mildly, because even John Constantine wasn't stupid enough to downright glare at the Winter Soldier. He got a smirk and a wink in return both of which promised more violence than Heaven and Hell combined and John tried not to be taken aback.

"What's all _this_ ," John waved loosely with his tealess hand at the probably-not-dead Captain America, Captain America's probably homicidal boyfriend, and Stephen Strange's workroom but also indicating 'the Avengers, _good_ guys, boring superhero shit', "got to do with the likes of me?"

"Nergal," Strange said simply but somehow even more pretentiously serious than normal. Ugh.

" _So_?" John put down his tea (on the divination table because he could and was secretly amused by it) and crossed his arms.

He looked Stephen in the eye. Most people don't do that when you're the Sorcerer Supreme and John knew it would make the bloke uncomfortable. Which was plain old funny even in normal circumstances.

Strange just raised one (definitely manicured) eyebrow into an exaggerated arch. His lips pursed and his jaw twitched slightly but otherwise the reaction was all eyebrow – like the argument was patently obvious and didn't need actual words to be made. Typical.

Correct, but typical.

"Fine," John agreed grudgingly (after another few breaths for the look of the thing). "But no shooting if this all goes to Hell," he added turning to the Winter Soldier in the corner. "Particularly no shooting _me_."

The (maybe?) ex-assassin nodded which was apparently all the reassurance John was getting. Lovely.

"Looks pretty calm for a chap who's meant to be possessed by a demon god?" Constantine pointed out as he approached the table at last. Lighting a fag as he went and noting the lack of reproach from Strange. They really _must_ think they needed him. Bugger. No one ever needed him for anything good.

"Cursed probably," Strange supplied. "Not currently possessed."

"Currently?" Constantine pulled a flask of holy water out of one of his pockets and applied some to the good captain's notably chained down wrist. The skin turned red, slightly irritated but it didn't smoke or steam. So, exorcised or abandoned within the last half hour or currently dormant were both options. Brilliant.

"I _am_ capable of conducting a Babylonian exorcism on my own, John," Strange told him.

"Could've fooled me…" John said absently as took a long drag on his smoke and considered the problem.

"That was 20 years ago, Constantine. I think I've improved somewhat from then." Strange aimed for haughty but hit mildly amused instead. John smirked as he worked.

There was a not-so-subtle growl from the corner when John continued his tests with a silver blade but John waved it off.

"You even do the bit with the sheep?" John asked Strange as he drew a small sigil on the captain. Both question and sigil curious as much as diagnostic.

Strange looked 'supremely' uncomfortable. Poncey wanker. But at least that solved the mysterious post-possession coma. You had to do the sheep if you did it the old way – and Strange always did shit the old way if he possibly could.

"Right," Constantine said, clapping his hands together with mild glee. "I'm going to need a brass bowl, 2 quarts of black lambs' blood, a crystal knife, three sprigs of lavender, a parrot, and a lot of whisky. _Good_ whisky, mind you. None of this American swill."

"I am sure that can be arranged?" Strange turned to Wong who had mysteriously appeared in the doorway, as he was wont to do. Wong nodded and disappeared again on soft feet.

"And Strange?"

"Hmm?"

"After this we are _even_ on the Laos thing, yeah."

A pause. Then, "Naturally."

John huffed, cracked his neck and got to work.

This was still going to be bad, it always was, but at least it wasn't _baby's blood_ bad. Probably not going to get shot, get to paint all over Captain bloody America, might get a free zombie parrot. Could've been worse. Could've been a whole hell of a lot worse, come to think of it.

John Constantine, of all people, really should have known better than thinking _that_.


End file.
